


Four Years Is A Long Time

by MotionCats



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Bottom Din Djarin, Daddy Issues, F/M, Good Parent Din Djarin, Heartache, Heartbreak, Kinky, Oral Sex, POV Female Character, Praise Kink, Protective Din Djarin, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sex, Sexy, Switching, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, Vaginal Sex, Voice Kink, din djarin was a virgin before you, idk - Freeform, maybe theyre toxic, rebuilding a bad relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:42:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29044806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotionCats/pseuds/MotionCats
Summary: Four years since Mando left, you've been piecing yourself back together. You were young and stupid, but not anymore. He can't just waltz back into your life and expect you to welcome him back... can he?
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Character(s), Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	Four Years Is A Long Time

**Author's Note:**

> hi hi!  
> This is my first fic in about 9 years, so any constructive criticism is welcome.  
> I wanted to do a heartbreak fic but make it spicy so here you go.  
> If there are any Star Wars inaccuracies, let me know and I'll fix them.

You sit at a booth, waiting for Greef Karga. You have to readjust, your backplate makes these seats really uncomfortable. You wiggle a little in your seat, trying to get it into a better position. Damn things. 

Movement in the corner of the bar stops you - it’s Greef. Finally, you think. He’s only 15 minutes late this time - an improvement. He slides into the booth, and stares at you. 

“How many did you get?” 

“Four” you reply. 

“Not bad. There's only one other person who can do that, you know”, he gives you a wicked grin.

“I am aware of that”, you say, fiddling with the tracking fobs on the table, “and I would be grateful if we didn’t discuss him”. It’s still a little bit of a sore spot, and Greef knows that. He chuckles at you.

“If you could just so-”

“I’m not entertaining this” you cut him off. You stand up as tall as you can. “Give me my money, Greef, and stop being childish.” He laughs at you again. Honestly, you don’t know why this is so funny.  
Karga flicks the credits at you, and you catch them smoothly. Wow, that was good, even for you. 

Greef nods at the men flanking his sides. They’re off to collect your quarries. They won’t miss them, you think, they’re attached to your speeder.  
“Who’s next, then?” you ask, praying he’s not going to keep on this stupid joke for the whole conversation.  
Karga hesitates. That’s never a good sign. It usually means he’s got none left, or it’s a hard one.

“It’s a Gand” he croaks.  
You slump back in your chair and huff.  
“I knew you wouldn’t like it, I was going to give it to M-” this time he cuts himself off, knowing better than to bring him up. “I was going to give it to another bounty hunter, but he’s not available.” You eye up the tracking fob he’s brought out of his pocket. You reach across the table for it, but Karga snatches it away.

“You’ll need help with this one” he says. 

“I don’t need help”. How insulting. He knows you are more than capable of this, even if it’s a challenging one. 

“Trust me, you will on this one.” He’s swinging the fob now, Maker, he’s annoying. 

“I can do it myself, Karga. Give me the fob”. Your voice is steely, harsh. He sighs.

“Fine. But don’t come crying to me when it all goes wrong” he says.

“Don’t get yourself worked up, Karga. I won’t” you retort, snatching the fob from his loose hold. You give him no time to reply, walking away as soon as you have it in your grasp.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” he says snidely. You whip round, your eyes narrowing at him. 

“Get fucked, Karga” you remark. Idiot. 

You’re marching out of the cantina, eyes studying the fob. Where the fuck are you going to find a gand? Don’t they need respirators? Don’t they have hallucinogenic mist? This is going to be a hard one.

As you reach the exit, you look up. It’s too late - you violently connect with someone. The hard metal resonates in your skull. Fucking droids, you think. Why does nobody put them somewhere where they can’t cause trouble?

“Watch it” a dark, modulated voice says. You look at the droid you just collided with. 

Oh no. It’s a Mandalorian.  
No. It’s not a Mandalorian. It’s the Mandalorian. 

The disgust is clear on your face, you can see it reflected in his helmet. You decide not to dignify him with a response. He’s not worth it.  
You try to brush past him, but he’s in the middle of the doorway. Asshole.  
“Move”.  
It’s the only thing you can bear to say to him, and even that pains you to say. He stays exactly where he is, solid and unmoving.  
What do you do? You don’t want any contact with him. You don’t want to even look at him. Shit, he’s right in the doorway. Even without the helmet, you can see that he is smug, and enjoying this. You are forced to wiggle round him, pressing your breasts against his armour to get through the doorway. You have to hold your breath to squeeze through a small gap between him and the exit.  
You stare at his helmet the whole way, hoping that he can see how much you despise him. Asshole, you think.  
You’re surprised by a snigger. You that must have said that out loud, and not in your head.  
Still, better commit to it.  
“Asshole” you say, louder - so everyone can hear.  
Continuing your journey, you look ahead. You can hear Greef greeting the asshole you just collided with.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

You step out into the bright Tatooine sunlight. The suns are low today, and it’s blinding. The cantina is so dark it often gives you a false sense of time if you aren’t paying attention. At least you’re out of the way of him. You still refuse to say his name. He doesn’t deserve it.

Karga’s henchmen have removed the quarries from your speeder. Finally, at least it will be lighter now. You’ve been longing for the hot wind in your face since you captured the quarries. They were piled up in the passenger seat, as if they were paying to be taken somewhere.  
They weigh you down significantly, and slow you down. Four of them is no easy feat, especially when you’re balancing them in a two-person speeder. Seeing them gone brings you a weird kind of peace. Your speeder is your sanctuary, and you value being able to go anywhere as fast as you want. Speeding makes you feel alive, brings you something that can be described as almost joy.  
You swing your leg into the seat of the speeder, grimacing at the hot bantha hide encasing your seat. Pushing through it, you sit down. Hands on the controls, you can feel the heat from them radiating up and through your gloves. The burn is good. It fills you with confidence. You know you can handle this.

Sat outside the cantina you study the fob. It’s not beeping, nor is it flashing, so he can’t be near.  
You sigh. You hate Gands. Nasty, tricky bastards. Even worse, Karga was probably right - you could do with another set of hands. You’d never admit that though, you’d rather die trying than ask for help, especially not him. He’s the only other bounty hunter who could match your ability, even if you say so yourself. Karga told you earlier, only one other hunter could collect four quarries.  
You push the fob into the front pocket of your suede jacket. You’ll have to find his last move, his last locations, his friends. A long job even on the best of days. Revving your speeder, you take off. First stop, home. You can start tracking there. You start slowly through the spaceport, and when you hit the open expanse, you let it have it. 

The hot wind and dust in your face almost brings a smile to your cheeks. It feels good, you kind of like the bitter pain of sand in your face. Speed gets your heart going, and so does the vibration of the speeder under your feet. It elevates you, makes you feel in control. It’s almost like a high. Racing through the sandy expanse, you can see your home approaching. 

Well, not really a home. Your temporary abode. It’s been home for a year or so now, while you get yourself together. You don’t want to stay on Tatooine - it’s not exactly the place for a modern bounty hunter, and especially not a female one. Tatooine hasn’t become more accepting of hunters like you.  
Approaching your hut, you notice footprints. Big, booted footprints. You cut the engine, and let the speeder glide to a stop. As quietly as you can, you disembark the speeder and study them. Large, heavy footprints - you don’t recognise the pattern on the sole of the boots. Following the footprints with one hand on your blaster, and the other one holding your pendant so it doesn’t clack against your breastplate, you make your way to the back door.

It’s open.

Shit.  
It’s been a while since you were raided - you think it may be Tuskans, but they wouldn’t be wearing boots. You don’t have anything here anyway - everything of worth you keep on yourself.  
Slowly, you make your way into the house, and catch the flutter of a cape. You slide the blaster out of its case, ready to fire at whoever is in your home. 

Before you can take another step, you feel something cold and hard pressed to the back of your head. Fuck. How did you not see that coming?

“What are you doing here?” the trespasser asks. Well, not asks. More like demands.  
Modulated, you notice.  
What a dick!  
Spinning round on one foot, you point the blaster at him, his blaster now pointed directly at your forehead. 

“What am I doing here?” you splutter, “What are you doing here! I live here!”  
It’s the fucking Mandalorian. You feel sick at the sight of him. You can’t believe you ever liked an asshole like him.  
The Mandalorian lowers his weapon. You don’t lower yours. Keeping it steadily pointed at his helmet, you ask again.  
“Tell me. What do you want in my house?” Your voice is deadly calm. Shit, even you’d be scared of you. You’re not a small person, and you’ve developed some muscle since becoming a bounty hunter. Coupled with the breast and back plate, and your weapons, you intimidate people regularly. Every now and again you surprise yourself at your own strength. Not him, though. Of course he isn’t intimidated. His whole creed revolves around honour and violence.

The Mandalorian surprises you, though. He has the decency to look sheepish, even through his armour. That’s a look you’ve never seen before.

“I- I needed some food.” he says. You raise your eyebrow at him. A Mandalorian, stuttering and looking for food? Maker have mercy.

“Mandalorians don’t eat” you mock, “remember?”

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t move a parsec. 

“It’s not for me. It’s for…” he gesticulates towards the open cupboards you also failed to notice. Shit, this really caught me off guard, you think. 

There’s a metal orb, floating next to an open cabinet door. What the fuck is that?

“What the fuck is that, Mando?” you ask.  
Fuck, you said his name. Idiot! 

He sighs. Even though he’s modulated, you can tell he is not pleased at the situation.

“It’s an - it’s a child. One of my tasks.”

This shocks you, and breaks you into a smile. You start chuckling, despite yourself. Actually, this is quite funny. The chuckles turn into laughs. Big, bad, Mando, and a baby? Comedy gold. He sighs again.  
This makes you laugh harder. Maker, are those tears? Of laughter? It’s been a long time since you’ve found something this amusing.

“It’s not funny. I’m here because I need help” he says. He’s trying to be firm, but every time you stop laughing, you feel the corners of your mouth twitch up again. “Listen, it’s not ideal and it’s killing me to ask you this but-” he stops. He resets himself.  
“I need you,” he says.

That wipes the smile off your face.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“No.” you say. You’re slamming cupboard doors shut, rifling through the remaining open ones to see what was taken and what needs replacing.  
“Listen, I don’t want it either” he starts.  
“No.” you say again, with more volume.  
“We have to sort this out” he tries to reason.  
“Sort what out, Mando? Nothing happened, remember?” That was a low blow, but deserved.  
He straightens up. You didn’t even realise he was slouching. That Mandalorian etiquette is slipping, you think.  
You sigh, having found a few things missing that his kid must have eaten. You turn, and step towards him. He steps backwards. You decide to use this to your advantage.

You’re walking, and you’re walking towards him. Blaster pointed at him again, you try to shepherd him out of your house.  
“Get out,” you say. He’s walking backwards now, the metal orb following him. You slowly walk him to the door. “Don’t ask me again. Get out. Fix your problem on your own, Mandalorian.”  
The door slams in his face, but he stands there, statuesque and solid.  
Once he is out of your home, you stare at the closed door, burning holes into it.

Do you expect him to beg and plead?  
No.  
Then why are you disappointed he doesn’t? 

You watch him from the window, walking across the expanse with his ward. His big, booted feet make heavy imprints on the sand. His floating orb is soundless, gliding along next to him.  
The suns are going down.  
Must be close to dinner. Your stomach grumbles, but you’re too worked up to eat. Seeing him, twice in one day was too much. Even once in one day was too much for you. The pain you thought you had buried deep was resurfacing. It was resurfacing and it was hurting, but it made you angry too.

He’d been missing from your life for four years. You’d managed to avoid him for four years. You’d heard of his success, and Greef would bring him up occasionally, much to your dismay. You didn’t care anymore. Not about him, not about anything. You’d made it on your own, in your own house, as a successful bounty hunter. Nobody would have thought an orphan like you could make it, but you did. And you did it on your own, you remind yourself.  
It’s insulting that he thought you would say yes, you try to reason. He can take his kid and go, you think. The pang of guilt that comes with that thought is unpleasant. It’s been years since you felt anything close to guilt. Why would now make any difference?

Before you have even considered the time of day, or the risk factor of being outside in the dusk, you’re on the speeder and hurtling away. In the dusky purple sunset, you’re racing as fast as you can. Desperate to feel anything but what you feel now, you take sharp turns, going back on yourself.  
Still not fast enough.  
You double the turns, double the speed, kicking up dust everywhere.  
It’s working. You’re not in pain. You’re angry. You slalom the speeder, leg so close to the ground that you’re grazing it on the dunes. That felt good. You do it again, and again, dangerously making turns and circles in the sand.

On one turn, you’re too close to the ground. You catch your leg in a ditch and the speeder takes off without you, leaving you in the dirt.  
Shit, you hiss. That really fucking hurt. It bent your leg at an unnatural angle, and now you’re filthy in a ditch. The speeder is so far away now.  
“Fuck!” you shout. You start to limp towards it, kicking any mounds of sand you find on the way. This will take an age.  
As you approach the speeder, you realise how dark it is. That was really fucking stupid of you. There are Tuskan Raiders everywhere, and you’re meandering around like its a fucking day out.  
You mount your speeder, and as you start it you feel a little better. The pain in your heart has been replaced by the pain in your leg. A leg you could treat, anyway.  
It’s getting really dark now, and you feel a little exposed. You decide to make your way back home, a little faster than you should do really, considering your leg.

Approaching your hut, and leaving the speeder outside, you realise how disgusting you are. Covered in dust, sweat, and Maker knows what. Probably some bantha shit in there somewhere too. You weren’t planning on cleaning up until the morning, but this had decided for you that you needed to wash it off.  
Fresher it is, you think. 

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It’s not a large room, but it’s certainly not as small as some hovels you’ve been in. You let your clothes drop to the floor - it’s messy, but you needed to clear up anyway. You turn the shower on and let it heat up as best as it can, hoping for the room to fill with steam.  
You’re not yourself tonight. Today’s escapades have totally thrown you. Everything you’ve been working on for the last four years has been tossed away with one quick encounter. Sighing, you step into the shower.

As the tepid water beats onto your shoulders, you close your eyes to enjoy the spray. Tatooine may have shitty water temperature, but the pressure was fantastic.  
Grabbing the soap, you lather up. As you’re lathering away the grime and dirt of the Tatooine sand dunes, your mind starts to wander. You think about today's events - the quarries, Karga giving you the Gand, walking into Mando in the cantina doorway. Him showing up at your house, raiding for food with a baby in tow. A baby, of all things.  
You think about him. You shouldn’t, you’ve been training your brain to not think of him for years now. You think about his heavy footprints, his shiny beskar armour, his broad shoulders under those pauldrons, right down to his hands. He was always so good with them. Underneath the leather gloves, his hands were calloused and rough. It felt so good on sensitive parts of your body.  
Are we really going to do this? Your conscience is screaming at you. This is a bad idea, and you know it.  
You choose to ignore it.

You trail a hand down your body, letting them skate across your breasts, pushing down to your pulsing clit. It has been so long since you allowed yourself a release. It’s been so long since you actually had sex. He wasn’t your last intimate experience. There’s been a few here and there, a few females too. None of them get you into this frame of mind, though. You can’t help it; you think about Mando, you get sad. You think about Mando, you get angry. It’s just the equivalent of hate sex, you try and reason with yourself. 

You think about Mando, and you get so turned on you have to do something about it. You’re frustrated and angry and turned on, there’s only one thing to do.

You think about his strong shoulders as your hand goes straight to your clit. You could have this done in about 90 seconds, but you might let yourself enjoy this.  
You make tight circles around your clit, engulfed in the warm spray of the shower. You think about the way his back shifts and moves as he drags his quarry into the hold. The way his thick, muscled thighs used to rub your clit just right as you straddled his leg, and how you could grind onto it as he massaged your skin. That was your favourite, to grind against his thigh and tease him. The way that his rough, dry hands used to skim down your back, squeezing your breasts or ass. The dry hands against your sensitive skin used to set you ablaze.

You don’t notice the water is going cold, you’re so entranced by the memories of your tryst. The way his modulated voice used to call you a good girl when you were so close. Even just thinking about the way he would say it pushes you to the brink. You think about the way he used to speak - precise, clear words that he knew would make you come. 

“Good girl. Let go.”

Your orgasm washes over you and makes you stagger your breath. Your heart thumps in your chest. The beautiful pulsing of your centre makes you weak at the knees, forcing you to brace against the tiles. That was long overdue.

The water is cold, and it’s giving you goosebumps everywhere. You should get out. 

You’re too busy thinking about Mando.

Shit.


End file.
